


Wild Game

by elisende



Series: Whisper My Name [1]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Ritual Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27893398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisende/pseuds/elisende
Summary: That look, the recognition exchanged between hunter and prey, was part of the ritual--of the immortal hunt, between elf and beast, and of the Wild Game.  Valatoth khalgith, the life-giving glance.  His life and body had been forfeited to the huntress, and were hers to command--in whatever way she wished.
Relationships: Halsin (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Halsin (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Whisper My Name [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079360
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

What no one understood about Halsin was that he was a man of great, if not inexhaustible, forbearance.

To the initiate convinced his master was secretly one of “the lizard folk” in a cunning disguise, Halsin proffered a barely raised eyebrow.

He merely sighed when Glinzel, a half-drow lay priestess, lobbied him for an idol of Silvanus for her bedchamber, and dismissed her with a terse wave when she suggested that his fine person might be a reasonable substitute to decorate it, if the idol was needed elsewhere. Though he allowed that he had growled a bit when she added, “preferably nude” to her request.

And when a minor riot broke out at breakfast between a halfling, two initiates, and a semi-crazed boar over a bowl of honeyed wheat berries, he hardly raised his voice--only enough to be heard over the din of hooves trampling over the halfling’s hammered breastplate.

But even his considerable patience was not without limits. And that patience dried up all the faster when certain needs went unmet for too long.

Worse, the Druids could sense his hunger, and like lascivious Glinzel, many sought to offer themselves up as tribute to his desire. But he’d walked down that road before--too many times--and had vowed never again. What began as an innocent dalliance all too often ended ugly, creating disharmony in the Circle: accusations of favoritism, dinner-ruining recriminations, and general ill feeling that hung about like a persistent, swampy fug.

Kagha had been his last--and he swore to himself, final--mistake, nearly four decades ago. Every time his needs threatened to overcome his judgment, he reminded himself of the sight of her jilted lover--a high elf he had been, and from a rather good family in Evermeet--running bare-arsed through the grove, covered in pseudo-mystical symbols and pig shit he’d mistaken for woad, howling some laboured rhyme about Kagha’s tits. It was only by Silvanus’s sweet grace he longer recalled the words of that poem. 

Nearly a decade after that final incident and his self-imposed vow, the situation had seemed nigh intractable--for his needs, and the bear’s needs, were inescapable, yet discord, if not outright chaos, was sure to follow if he bedded another member of his Circle.

The answer was so obvious.

It came to him on a journey to High Forest. The Wood Elves there were his people, though the kingdom where his kin once ranged was long, long abandoned. Elves had left for Evermeet, goblins proliferated, humans pushed them back, then elves returned and reclaimed their lost land, as the centuries passed. Much of what had been was lost, but some traditions remained, in the deep wild of southern reaches.

None more beloved to his people than Aerith Av’in. The Wild Game.

In truth, he’d nearly forgotten the Wild Game of his youth. He might have lost even those distant memories if he hadn’t stumbled onto the huntress that moonstruck night.

She wore her auburn hair in a long braid down her sinuous back; the tip just brushed the swell of her buttocks. Naked, she was, and he only guessed she was a hunter because of the long, deadly bow she carried, its tips spiked in thorns. 

Her eyes, gold-ringed like a goshawk’s, scanned the shadowed pines of the grove, but he saw her long before she noticed him watching her. He took her in, mystified: at once so defenseless in her nakedness, yet so alert, and armed. And then he remembered the Aerith A’vin, the Wild Game of his boyhood.

It was consecrated to the Leaflord, though religion, per se, was the last thing on his mind when he hunted the Aerith A’vin as a youth. As he watched the huntress thumb her bowstring, his loins twitched with the sudden, visceral memory: an arched back, a wordless moan, the first, sweet plunge into a woman’s wetness. He gasped and there in the present, the huntress had spun and drawn her bow taut, eyes wide. Her form was perfect in every way.

He didn’t lift his hands. Didn’t trust himself even to breathe. His eyes held hers, showing he understood. 

That look, the recognition exchanged between hunter and prey, was part of the ritual--of the immortal hunt, between elf and beast, and of the Wild Game. Valatoth khalgith, the life-giving glance. His life and body had been forfeited to the huntress, and were hers to command--in whatever way she wished.

She had taken him in the richness of the pine duff, and forever after the scent of pine pitch would call back the memory of the huntress, gold-ringed eyes fixing him to the ground as she rode him, hunting knife to his throat. A trickle of blood as she lost control, pleasure overtaking her senses, and the strangled cry that escaped his throat had drawn others to them, others who claimed him in turn. 

The ritual was repeated, twice, thrice, and again, until the moon dipped low in the sky and left them all gasping, a raven haired warrior with tattooed snakes writhing up his forearms knelt over Halsin, gripping him around the shoulders like a wrestler, his final thrusts and Halsin’s pleasured groans punctuating the end of the night of worship. 

Never was the ritual spoken of beyond the night, always the waxing sixth moon of the year, and if he should chance upon the raven haired elf later in his journey, neither would speak of that night when Halsin had been prey under the hunter’s eager hands.

Now, when the six month approached and Halsin’s unslaked desire threatened the harmony he cherished, he undertook his journey.

“I don’t understand,” Kagha said, watching him pack a few necessaries. 

Simple healing potions, a jar of lavender oil to help him relax into his evening meditation, some dried chamomile for his tea, a pinch of the greenleaf for recreation, and a pretty feather he liked, plucked from a sleeping lyrebird. Kagha scowled at Halsin even as her eyes begged him not to leave. 

“It’s not required that you understand,” he answered, too sharply. His patience was now worn to a brittle veneer that shattered at the slightest probing. Her expression closed, but not so quickly that he missed the hurt that flashed across her features.

“You are the most talented Druid I’ve trained,” he said in a more measured tone. “That is why I’m leaving the Circle in your care.”

Her eyes lit up--too eagerly, she was ever too ready to assume power, and he hoped that this brief taste of the trials of leadership would cure her of at least some of her overweening ambition. 

“I will keep the Circle strong,” she said, already standing straighter, lifting her chin.

“You will quickly learn that the best way to do that,” he said, “Is by keeping it in harmony. And to listen more than you speak.”

She opened her mouth as though to launch into one of her tirades but stopped herself just in time, replying with a simple, “Yes, Master Druid.” He winced, as though the words were a lash. She’d called him that in fun, many years ago, with honey dripping from her fingers, her unbound hair, her breasts--

He turned abruptly to his pack, decided the thing was useless after all, and tossed it into one of the illimitable crates they left laying around the sanctum, as though it were a warehouse, not consecrated ground. 

“Well then, Treefather’s blessing to you,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder. Anyone else in the Circle he might have hugged, but he couldn’t bear to see her pull away from him.

She bowed her head, and because he was already gone he didn’t see the tears that glistened in her eyes, unshed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desire sang in his blood, desire he’d not felt in many decades of the Wild Game. It took all of his forbearance--again--not to hike up her silky skirt and rut her against the rough bark of the standing pines like a senseless animal. 
> 
> But as Halsin had learned, there were sweet rewards to be had for desire deferred.

The journey to the High Forest was ever a time of unburdening, and it seemed to Halsin that his feet grew lighter with every mile. Each night his rest deepened; and when it rose, the sun shone brighter than the day before. 

Some mornings he would tarry, listening as the raucous symphony of the dawn chorus mellowed into lilting birdsong. 

And some nights, charged with desire and the exhilaration of his freedom, he hiked deep into the night, only pausing to rest when the stars dipped low in the purpling sky.

On the last night of his journey, when he reached the southern tip of the High Forest, he indulged his whim for a campfire and watched the flames shiver and dance. He found a small twist of greenleaf in the little pouch on his belt and packed it into his pipe, blowing smoke rings that evanesced before they could skim the stars. 

Thoughts passed, like fish in a clear stream, and he grabbed for one or two before they slipped away. He wondered how Kagha was finding her first taste of leadership, and how many initiates were nursing red cheeks that night. 

Halsin marveled how strange it was that he, who had once been more full of unspent rage than Kagha could have ever experienced, had become Master Druid of a Circle. 

The bear had saved him, well and truly--it was only by channeling his raw anger into the animal that it hadn’t consumed him, as the flames of his campfire consumed the dead wood he’d collected.

He twirled the lyrebird feather in his fingers--he’d brought it, after all--mesmerized by the pattern it made when he spun it. He’d smoked too much, had been alone too long, had wandered too far. When he dropped into his trance that night, he could find no comfort, and no rest.

*

Just as he had planned, Halsin reached the southern wild woods where the Wild Game was still observed just as the summer sun sank below the treeline, alighting the pines with a furnace’s glow.

Now he was only caught unawares when he wished to be. And sometimes the mood did strike, but tonight, he decided, he would hunt.

As the ritual demanded, he shed his armor and clothes. First he removed his ironbark gauntlets and shoes, then the buckled leather armlets where he liked to tuck interesting herbs, leaves, or feathers he found in his wanders. After he removed his belt and baldric, he slipped his tunic over his head, shivering with pleasure as the warm summer breeze tickled his bare back. 

He was naked, save for his silver-tipped club, carved with sacred runes, and he bent to bundle his discarded clothes when a twig snapped behind him. The druid pivoted, raising the club by instinct.

A human woman, clothed and unarmed. He took her in, from her pink bodice to her golden braids, looped below her ears. 

Had she wandered into this dangerous ritual by mischance? But her eyes met his, and in the fatal glance--Valatoth khalgith--he realized she understood, was willing, and offering herself to the Leaflord--to him--as prey.

His head swam from the headiness of her scent; peach juice was on her lips and he sucked them greedily before moving down to her soft throat. His first woman, centuries ago in this very forest, had been a human, and he had somehow imprinted on it, forever after desiring to lose himself in the softness that only their kind seemed to possess. 

She sighed as his hand found the front of her pink bodice, skimming the tops of her full breasts. He pressed his stiff, throbbing cock against her front and held her close as she gasped and seemed to struggle away from his embrace.

“Shh,” he murmured into the shell of her ear, and she stilled against him. His hand found the skirt of her gown and slipped beneath, first exploring the gentle contours of her thighs before moving up to caress her belly, the tips of his fingers barely touching the top of her sex. She gasped again, twisting in his arms like a salmon and he restrained her more forcefully, all the while whispering wordless noises into her ear. 

Desire sang in his blood, desire he’d not felt in many decades of the Wild Game. It took all of his forbearance--again--not to hike up her silky skirt and rut her against the rough bark of the standing pines like a senseless animal. 

But as Halsin had learned, there were sweet rewards to be had for desire deferred.

He ran his thumb against the sublime softness of her lower lip, seeing his own need reflected back in her dark eyes. Again, he kissed her deeply, plunging his tongue into her mouth, taking in her flavor and scent both as he lowered her to ground. 

“Please,” she begged him as he crouched over her. He stilled her words with his mouth as his hand again found her creamy thighs beneath her skirt, stroking up to the warm, damp patch between them. 

And this, too, he loved about human women, the way their hair caught their juices. He teased the curls with a gentle tug before sliding his finger inside her, her back arching with a cry of pleasure. He crooked his finger, bringing forth another rictus of pleasure, and felt a drip of come trickle down the side of his erection. 

He toyed with her, circling her clit with his thumb as his middle finger delved deeper, then more rhythmically, picking up in tempo until the sweet smell of her pleasure, like fallen apples, filled the grove. Her lips swelled beneath his touch, plump petals, dripping wet. “Please,” she begged him again, looking up at his hard member, now throbbing so that it actually pulsed.

Halsin smiled, indulgent--words were forbidden in the ritual. He placed a finger over her open lips and then tore back her pink bodice in one violent rip.

Her breasts were like those of an ancient fertility goddess, supple and generous, tipped by dainty nipples the exact shade of pink of her bodice. She made a beautiful sight and he leaned back to appreciate it, her muddied skirt up around her thighs and bodice torn off to the waist, braids around her naked shoulders and her full, bare breasts shining in the twilight. 

She looked up at him with her great eyes, and he was unable to resist any further. With another mighty rip, he pulled off what remained of her gown, flipping her onto her belly, as the ritual dictated, and pressing his cock to her wet readiness. 

There was no teasing now, he couldn’t bear it, and he thrust into her in single smooth motion, like a lance striking true, and just as in his first time, felt the sublime softness, the sweet give of her. He nearly came on that first stroke, perhaps would have if he’d been younger. But with a cry that was partly a groan, he pulled back, more measured with his next thrusts, gripping her soft hips in his hands as he dipped into her, more shallowly now, but slow enough to truly feel her.

She resisted his attempts to slow down, spreading her legs to take him deeper, then crying out for the pain and pleasure of taking him so deep. He wished he could speak, to tell her to slow down, but he recalled the ritual and then remembered she was his, to do with as he pleased. His hand found her breasts and he cupped one, thumbing her pink nipple and making her back arch against his belly.

Relishing that contact, he pulled her close against him as he continued to thrust, bringing himself close to the brink again then pulling back just before he came. He ran a hand down her front and she shivered with pleasure before he braced himself against her hips again, bearing deeper with every thrust. 

He was close, and every little moan from her beneath him was bringing him closer. A curl of hair had escaped her braid, and he kissed her neck where it fluttered, breath hot against her skin as something inside of her released, and she gushed, her scent filling his nose.

Pleasure overtook him, overtook them both and after one final thrust he spurted his lifeforce into her, so deep, his hips shuddering, a groan escaping his lips.

The world seemed to regain its sound and color as he bowed over her shapely back, still inside her. Her thighs were slick with her ecstasy and the smell of apples lingered in the air, sweet and wild. He turned her over, the ritual satisfied, and held her to his chest, hands tangled in her curls. 

They lay there for perhaps minutes, hours, or eons, as the stars wheeled overhead, until without a word, nearly without a sound, she slipped away from him, and was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

The moon rose. 

Around him, the forest seemed to sigh as the ritual wore into night’s deepest hours. 

Halsin, sated, was uncertain he had the stamina for more hunting this night. Even the prospect of a year’s passing without another’s touch didn’t move him. The bear was lazy, and not given to a great deal of forward thinking, and sometimes that served him ill. Perhaps he would spend the rest of the night in meditation, listening to the moans emanating from the dark.

So he was thinking as a lithe figure crossed the path ahead of him. Tall--though not as tall as Halsin--and nude as the day he was born. Another hunter. 

He carried a bow of beautifully carved ironwood. He had to be rich, important, or terribly beloved to carry such a weapon.

Halsin leaned forward and the minute sound of his thigh brushing a maidenhair fern stopped the elf mid-step. 

The hunter turned, the watery moonlight a glimmer in his blue-green eyes. He was young, Halsin realized. As young as he’d been his first time. A century, perhaps. 

As if sensing Halsin’s gaze, the young elf tilted his head fractionally, the moonlight illuminating his high cheekbones and the clean angle of his jaw. Halsin sucked in his breath; the youth was beauty personified, a demigod in flesh.

The hunter jerked his head at the noise, raising his arrow to point into the shadows where Halsin crouched. Eyes narrowed, he bared his teeth.

The druid smiled, his lassitude forgotten. This one showed promise.

Halsin emerged from the shadows, his silver-tipped club resting on his shoulder, a slight smile on his lips. They locked eyes. 

The ritual of the look was a battle of wills, and if the will of prey and hunter were both resolute, could go on for minutes. The young elf did not wish to lose, but Halsin was older, wiser--and stronger. Yet the youth wouldn’t concede, even as the moon began to lower in the sky and the night grew stiller, paler--fading almost to dawn. 

Urgency nearly broke Halsin’s will; he must have the youth, his loins insisted, before day broke and the ritual ended. His own mind betrayed him with images of taking the young elf on the ground between them, feeling the hunter shudder beneath him as they climaxed together. 

But Halsin remained firm and something in the other elf wavered and he dropped his blue-green eyes to the forest floor, his lips twisting bitterly. Defeat.

With a growl of victory, Halsin closed the gap between them in a single stride, grabbing the youth’s fine bow, nocked arrow and all, and tossing it aside as though it were dead wood for kindling. 

Up close, the wildness in the elf’s eyes was apparent. Halsin wondered if he was drugged--but no, it was panic. He even smelled of fear and why not, if it was his first Wild Game? Tenderly, Halsin took the youth’s chiseled chin in his hand, tipping it so their eyes met again. Words were forbidden, but with his gaze he made the youth understand that he was safe, that no harm would come to him. At least, nothing that wouldn’t heal after a few days of rest.

He started slowly, his hand moving up to caress the youth’s temples and then down his throat, the firm plateaus of his chest muscles, pausing to circle the young elf’s hardened nipples. The youth gulped audibly, but he didn’t flinch or break away. That was good--to turn back now was to desecrate the Leaflord’s offering. 

Already hard, Halsin leaned forward to kiss the youth, and half of him still marveled at his beauty, even as the other half was distracted by his other qualities. The barest moan escaped his pillowy lips as Halsin teased him with his tongue. The druid dragged his hand through the youth’s dark auburn hair, as long and soft as a girl’s, eliciting another barely audible groan.

Now he trailed his hand downward, skimming the lean muscled ridges of his abs and closing around his hard cock, hot to his touch. The youth cried out, and the sound was both a plea and an exclamation. When he pulled away, need was written on his face, along with the fear Halsin had seen before. This youth had been ill-treated, once, Halsin realized. The thought enraged him, waking the bear within. He kissed the young elf fiercely, raking his fingers down his side, growling into his gasping mouth. 

And then the youth fought back, pushing him hard against a lichen-slickened trunk. This was not in accordance with the ritual, but Halsin welcomed it, laughing in appreciation at the young elf’s spirit, his will to survive.

Smiling now, the youth took Halsin’s cheeks in his hands and pulled him into a deep, lingering kiss. Electricity shot through his body as their cocks brushed against one another, and it was Halsin’s turn to gasp. 

The youth tracked his hand down the druid’s body, achingly slowly, still wearing a sly smile. The druid’s breathing became shallow and rapid as the young elf’s limber, strong fingers circled around his pelvis, knuckles just brushing against his balls. He knelt, his lips so close to Halsin’s cock that he could feel the hot sigh of his breath on it.

Halsin’s desire was building up into something dangerous, he felt, like an unslakeable fire that could incinerate an entire forest. 

As if in answer, the youth took him in mouth, his tongue first hesitantly lapping the weeping tip of the druid’s cock, then his entire thick shaft. Halsin groaned, thankful for the support of the tree trunk behind him, as the youth ran his tongue up and down, holding the druid’s hips as they thrust rhythmically. He licked him as flames lick against a log, consuming him as he went.

He felt his climax coming, too quickly. “Stop,” Halsin said, breaking the ritual, but the hunter wouldn’t stop until his work was done. He took him in deeper, to the back of his throat, and looked up at the druid with those piercing eyes of blue-green, entreating him. 

He lost control and came in the youth’s mouth, grasping the slick side of the tree as his body shuddered and spurted against his will.

The youth fell onto his hands and knees, gasping and wiping his mouth. A streak of black earth marked one lean thigh, up to the hip, like an ugly brand.

Halsin felt frustration and desire in equal measure, looking at the beautiful young elf crouched before him. This wasn’t how the ritual was supposed to go, but… it had all become a bit rote after all these years, hadn’t it? Worn thin, like a threadbare cloak.

As much as he wished to position himself behind the youth, to carry out the rite with a few powerful thrusts--and despite the pleasurable interlude, he felt eminently capable of doing just that--he also wanted to see into what territories this new approach led them.

The young elf regarded him from the ground, as though privy to his thoughts. He smiled--inviting or mocking?--and Halsin made up his mind. They would complete the ritual but with perhaps a bit more license than the ancient priests had intended.

A growl in his throat, Halsin pinned the youth to the ground, looming over him, their faces nearly touching. He knew he was an imposing figure, and he used it to his full advantage. His big, callused hand found the hunter’s erection and he squeezed and stroked, enjoying the mingled pleasure and pain on the young elf’s face. As one hand worked, the other reached for the silver tipped club he’d dropped. 

The youth had a nice, polite dick. It was big without being offensively large; straight and long, clean lined as his beautifully worked bow. He took it into his mouth and the youth groaned, losing himself in the sensation of Halsin’s tongue sliding along his length, running his teeth ever so gently along the less sensitive length of his shaft. 

Just as the young elf was about to lose himself, Halsin took his club and teased the silver tip against the youth’s ass. The cold metal made him gasp and struggle, but Halsin put all the weight of his muscled shoulders onto the hunter’s hips, pinning him down as he slid the first inch of the shaft inside of him.

It was nearly dawn, and the youth’s cry shook a flock of nearby ravens from their roost. The boughs of the pine trees loosed their silvery drops on the two figures below, who were insensible to the disturbance.

Halsin didn’t stop pleasuring the young elf with his mouth even as he began to thrust the club deeper and deeper into him, his own cock hardening with every thrust of the runed weapon. 

The youth had begun to pant and moan, the volume increasing as the powerful druid put his weight onto him once again, pinning him down as sucked and thrust inside him at the same time. Deeper, and deeper still, until several inches of the club were inside of the youth, his face a mask of naked gratification.

His rhythm increased as he sensed the youth reaching his climax and at the critical moment, he pulled away from his cock and sank his teeth into the muscle of the youth’s inner thigh like a feral beast. The young elf sighed as he came, a strand of opals garlanding Halsin’s chest and neck. Halsin slid the silver-tipped club out from the young elf’s body and rested against his lean thigh as he caught his breath.

The sky was lightening; the ritual had ended. But Halsin still was not finished. 

Slowly, he rose to his hands and knees, looming over the young elf. The wildness had returned to his eyes, but desire remained there, and now, too, trust. Halsin dragged his hand through the elf’s hair once again, kissing the back of his neck as he rose to all fours beneath him. Now, the ritual would be complete.

He was already hard again, and the youth was ready for him. Without preamble, he grabbed the youth’s pelvis and entered him, just a shallow dip at first, teasing himself as much as he was being careful not to injure him. Halsin knew his girth was too much for most to comfortably accommodate.

The young elf hissed in pain as he went deeper and Halsin had to remind himself to go slowly, gently. He was so tight. He rocked him, leaning in close to whisper sweet words into the young elf’s ear. 

The first birdsong echoed through the wood as their tempo increased, and Halsin was fully inside him, gasping with every thrust, his hair, loosened from its binding, spilling across the youth’s back. His cries began to sound ever more urgent, pleading. Like the woman, he begged Halsin, “please,” as the druid’s thrusts became less gentle. The youth bowed his head, dropping his shoulders and raising his hips in a gesture of total submission, and only then did Halsin come, spilling his seed inside him for the second time.

When he withdrew, the youth’s face had been ground into the earth, leaving dirt in his dark eyebrows and grime across his cheeks, which Halsin brushed off tenderly before losing himself in another depthless kiss that tasted of wild thyme and chestnut honey. He wanted to break all the rules, to ask the youth his name, to travel with him--wherever he was going. To protect him from whatever it was that haunted him, perhaps even to avenge him.

But before he could speak, the young elf had broken away, snatching up his precious bow, thing of beauty that it was, and vanishing into the morning fog. 

*

When Halsin returned to the grove, no one noticed that he was even sulkier than when he’d left. They were simply relieved to have his gentle tyranny over Kagha’s outright dictatorship.

“Please Master Halsin,” said the drow priestess, shaking him out of his reverie one dinner evening. She grabbed his arm. “Please,” she repeated, inevitably drawing into his mind the soft skinned woman and the beautiful, wild elf. “Don’t ever leave us again.”

And for some years, he didn’t.

*

Halsin, in his wild shape, paced from one side of his cage to the other. The opportunity to end Ketheric’s wickedness--finally, to end the blight he’d put on the land--had been simply too tempting to pass up. He would make the same decision again, though with perhaps more reliable companions. The distant, rational, elven part of his mind realized that, even as the bear simply raged at his incarceration.

Once the goblin spawn had discovered the entertainment value of baiting the bear, they quickly returned. Their torments did not serve to diminish the bear’s rage.

Just when the druid was almost entirely subsumed in the fury, he heard a familiar voice echoing down the cavernous hall. A figure strode down the stone steps to his cage, and before him, as though by some magic charm, stood the young elf, still carrying his beautiful bow. The bear’s anger faded to the background, and Halsin’s mind returned, dizzy at seeing him again.

He could not know him in his bear shape, but all the same the youth’s face crumpled in sympathy to see his wretchedness.

“He’s helpless, let him go,” he commanded the goblins. His voice so strong, certain. Had they met again in the forest, now, would the youth have prevailed in the battle of wills? Halsin thought the answer was perhaps yes.

The goblins cackled and jeered. Halsin growled, for a battle was sure to follow. And it did, gods help them. The youth moved with a grace rare even among elves, nocking, drawing, and shooting in a single fluid motion. The walls were shining with goblin blood and the bear’s mouth full of foul entrails by the end of it. 

When the last goblin was skewered by the youth’s arrow, a shot that pierced her skull right between the eyes, Halsin reclaimed his elven shape. 

The youth’s eyes widened in recognition, but he said nothing as the druid whispered a few healing words. Halsin smiled, though he wanted to laugh, or perhaps weep. Both. 

“You aided a bear without knowing whether it would savage you?” he said. The laughter bubbled up in him and he was helpless to repress it. Fate had brought them together, again, in this vile place--and where, now, would it take them?


End file.
